


Among Stars

by maftor



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, My First Fanfic, Not Beta Read, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:29:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6461305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maftor/pseuds/maftor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When James T Kirk finds out his whole life has been a fabrication, he has a long way to go before he can trust what's around him again. But if there's one person who will keep him grounded, it's Spock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something just ain't right

Jim Kirk wakes up bleary, tired and with one foot sticking out over the side of the bed. Only half awake in truth he rolls over into a warm patch of sunlight and uses an arm to shield his eyes from the brightness of morning. Yawning, he rubs at the sleep in the inner corners of his eyes where it’s built up. He’s tangled up in the covers of the king-sized bed that’s empty aside from him, but he doesn’t really feel like moving when they are so soft. Now lying on his back once more he lifts his head just enough to glance at the pillow on the side of the bed that isn’t technically his but he’s ended up in anyway.  There’s a dent in the pillow that tells him it hasn’t been empty for too long.

He sits up slowly, brushing a hand through his hair, a strand of it flicking forward and tickling his forehead lightly, and glances towards the bedside table, where the clock sits. After a couple of seconds of processing he realises that he numbers tell him he isn’t late but he will be soon. And the creak of the bedroom door opening tells him he’s late enough for Carol to have cooked him breakfast.

As if on cue she sticks her head around the edge of the door and her blonde hair is already perfectly in place – she even wakes up like that sometimes – and the light catches it, making her shine. She says something, and he knows from how alert she looks that she’s had her morning cup of tea – not coffee – only seconds beforehand. He yawns again, stretching his entire body, and finally throws the covers from himself.  
“Say again?”  
“I’ve made you some breakfast but if you don’t eat it now you’re going to work hungry.” She smiles at him even though he knows she means it.  
“Coming,” His feet touch the cold flooring, a laminated wood that he can’t remember but knows they argued over for at least a week, and he pauses, almost rethinking his decision to stand up.  


Carol’s face is gone but the light is still there, falling into the hallway and lighting it warmly. The homely carpeted floor and soft coffee cream coloured walls were Carol’s choice, like a lot of the décor, since they both know Jim’s the sort of person who would get bored of seeing the same thing each day and redo what he had decided on after a week or two. It reminds him of home in a weary sort of way so he does his best not to notice it. There’s a sidetable in the hallway, some nondescript paintings that do more to break up the walls than they really ever did for their painter’s career, and a telephone. Beside it sits a vase filled with flowers that are months old and don’t seem to have wilted yet.

The carpet is a welcome change from the laminate in their bedroom and he pads through the house in just his boxers and a crumpled looking shirt, more ready to go back to bed than face the day. The kitchen floor is tiled and he regrets not putting up more of a fight. He walks a little faster. Carol chuckles at him from over her mug, reading something on a PADD, her finger gently guiding the images over the screen with the lightest of touches. He admires how able she is and how easy she makes it look – he practically has to slap his entire hand on the screen of his PADD to make it work.

There’s a plate opposite her on their small kitchen table, made for two and no more, and he sits down in a rickety looking but comfortable chair, the feet of it scraping unpleasantly on the floor as he tries to tuck it a little more under the table. He mumbles a ‘thanks’ through his first bite, chewing and swallowing quick enough to give himself hiccups. For a moment he looks at her through clearer eyes but the motion of her PADD screen scrolling distracts him. He manages to catch a couple of the headlines, reading upside down, but none of it interests him much (local affairs feel too tame and gossipy), and he polishes off the last crumb of the accompanying toast with a wide awake grin on his face.

“I’ll just get dressed,” He says as he takes the plate from the table and to the dishwasher, opening the door and sliding it into a compartment to be washed, rinsed and dried. It’s hard to believe the technology is more than a few years old.

Back in his bedroom he pulls his shirt over his head and throws it on the bed haphazardly, searching through their wardrobe for a plain button up shirt that doesn’t hang too loosely around him. Carol’s taken to cooking smaller portions for some reason, but she denies she’s doing it whenever he complains.

He doesn’t have time to shower so he sprays on some deodorant, a little more then necessary, and checks the mirror for stubble. He can get away with it – most people probably won’t notice. He loops his tie around itself and tightens it around his neck, the top button done up although he finds it far too stiff. Grabbing his briefcase and a suit jacket he strides into the kitchen, where Carol is checking her bag for all the things she needs to have. He sets a hand on her shoulder when he notices her verbally tick off a mental checklist of things she should have, and she turns to smile at him, a little weariness showing in the crow’s-feet forming at the edges of her eyes.

Jim calls them smile lines.

He leans down, although she’s only a couple of inches shorter than him, and presses a kiss to her cheek, where she’s rouged the apples of her cheeks slightly. Her skin is naturally pale and the added colour, she believes, gives her more of a glow. Jim thinks she glows just fine on cold winter mornings with sunlight streaming in through the gaps in the curtains, or on far too late summer mornings that are more often noons when they lie and talk while he plays with her hair or the edge of her nightshirt.

They’re not yet adults but no longer teenagers, stuck in the between childhood and adulthood but comfortable there. Adults have responsibilities and must always put themselves second. There is no time for them to lie in bed and stare at the starry night sky through the gap in the curtains or to sit and pause as they butter toast to remember the first time they had breakfast in the house as newlyweds.

On days like this they are temporary adults, going to work and paying bills, but then they’ll come home afterwards and curl up in each other’s warmth or he’ll find her making a sandwich long after they turned out the lights and they’ll wind up eating a midnight feast together by (bedside)lamplight.

Right now they are adults and they are lingering too long sharing smiles in their kitchen when they should be going to work. By the time he steps out of the door Jim must be an adult, a young man ready to work hard and smile at his co-workers regardless of what they say. He never manages it, too strongly emotional and too passionate about the smallest things, but his mother says he’s growing more and more into a young man.

Says he should be a politician instead.

He pulls himself together and they walk to the door, both trying to hold the door open for the other (she beats him) as they exit. He drives her to work in their car, somewhat old and a little beaten, and watches her leave. They work fairly near each other but with different focuses.

Science brought them together and it remains something that glues them to each other. He admires her curiosity and interest in biology, the big plans she makes and the things she dreams up, but his love is not in what is around them. He looks to the stars and sees places they’ve yet to explore and it fills him with a giddy curiosity. He becomes a child again, a proper child, and dreams of the people they might find hidden amongst the stars. The people, the races, multiple arms, reptilian skin? Two hearts, one in each palm? As he thinks of the things that are conjured up by the hope of a child rather than a man of twenty-two years he feels himself swell with pride of his part in this whole thing. He might well be part of one of their first proper journeys. The moon as nothing, nearby planets have been claimed, many of them are empty or inhospitable, but their technology grows by the day and so do the chances of them finding something. Someone.

 

* * *

 

It is days later that he is driving home from work, alone, when his phone goes off. Connected to the car it takes only a press of a single button to answer, Carol’s voice coming clear through the speakers. Her voice is bubbling, bursting and almost painfully restrained, as if she feels like shouting.  
“Jim, it’s positive.”  
“Say again?” He indicates and turns left, joining the main road where traffic is steady.  
“It’s positive, the doctor confirmed it.” She sniffs and he can hear her voice wavering a little. “Jim it’s true this time.”  


He slows the car carefully, ignoring the annoyed horns of people behind him, and stays silent. She grows impatient on the other end and her voice is sharper. “Jim? Don’t tell me you crashed the car.”

He makes a noise, a hum of disagreement, and pulls into a layby, turning off the engine and feeling the car settle on the ground. “I’m just… so it’s definite?”  
“Yes – what do you think? Aren’t you happy?” She sounds concerned.  
“I am,” He says quickly. “I’m just… shocked. It’s true this time.” He leans back in the seat and it reclines slightly automatically. “Jesus Carol, am I ready for it though?”  


“No,” She takes a moment to reply and when she does she chuckles a little. “You’re more of a kid than a father but this is the third time it’s been a possibility – it seems like –“  
“Fate,” He finishes her sentence. “Thought you didn’t believe in fate?”  
“No but you do.” He can hear the shrug in her voice.

“Do I need to pick you up?”  
“No, I’m already home.”  
He sits back up and starts the engine.  
“I’ll be there soon,”

He calls his mother as he drives, waiting to hear her tired voice through the same speakers, although he isn’t sure what she’ll think.  
“What’s happened now?” Her voice is as weary as usual but just hearing it he can picture the sparkle in her eye, the lightness and life that she refuses to let go of.  
“Well, grandma, I just thought I’d-“  
“Jim?” She exclaims over him and it’s so loud he jumps, braking suddenly and trying not to crash the car. “Are you sure this time?”  
“Yeah, Carol’s just got home from the doctor’s.” He cannot tell whether she is happy or not but there’s a hint of sadness in her voice.

She disapproved, when they married, said they were too young and it wouldn’t last. Between the two of them Carol and Jim had little money and big dreams. His mother came to the wedding and smiled but he could see sadness in her eyes throughout the ceremony. When he asked if she missed dad she had frowned and said of course she did before sighing at him.  
“That’s exciting, I must call her to get to know everything - you forgot to ask how far along she was didn’t you?”  
“I’m a bit shocked right now.”

A pause. His hands on the steering wheel are somewhat weaker and they feel far away from him. He flexes his fingers and feels the muscles, bringing himself back.

“Scared too?”  
“Mm,” He turns off the busy road and slows as he enters a neighbourhood near his. She knows full well that this idea scared him a lot. Being a father, he feels, isn’t in his nature. He’s still a child; she agrees.  
“She’ll be a wonderful mother and you… you’ll cope. You’re better at these sorts of things than you think.” She says the last part as if she’s scolding him. He nods, eyes on the road.

“I hope.”

 

* * *

 

Later that night he lies in bed, moonlight making the room glow, and presses a kiss to the back of Carol’s neck. Her breathing is soft and even, her heart a gentle drumbeat that he can feel where his thumb caresses her wrist and he sets a hand on her stomach gently. Nothing feels unusual or different and he cannot imagine a tiny human inside such a small stomach.

He has no reason to be scared of someone so small but he is. He presses his palm flat over her belly and feels her warm skin and the gentle, almost missable, curve that’s always there, but he cannot feel anything different. It’s her stomach but that’s all there is. He cannot – will not – imagine anything more there. He strokes her skin and sighs against her shoulder, cuddling her protectively. She seems peaceful, contented, and for the first time since they lay together at night he cannot share that. He pushes his face into the crook of her neck and breathes deeply, the scent of her conditioner and body wash, her deodorant and the faint smell of sweat all filling his nostrils. He listens to her pulse and counts along with it in his head but he is restless still.

None of it feels right.

He shuffles away, careful not to wake her, and sets his feet on the ground. It’s cold and he hurries to put some socks on, pulling on trousers and a jacket over his shirt, glancing over at Carol once more. She hasn’t stirred where he left her, thankfully. Without leaning down and placing a parting kiss on her forehead or shoulder he sets his hand on the door handle and misses. He pauses, caught by surprise, and finds his hand is below where the door handle should be. Lifting his hand to it once more he closes his fingers around it and quietly pushes the door open.

He walks down the street with his hands in his. There’s a breeze and he wraps his coat tighter around himself, scrunching up his face against it, but it’s not unbearable. The route he walks as if he knows it off by heart although occasionally he stops, having to check with himself whether he turns here or slightly further up. It takes him around twenty minutes before he reaches a grassy hill and his shoulders fall a little. He sits heavily on the slope and after a moment lies back. It’s almost midnight and there are no streetlights, or lights of any kind, nearby. The stars wink at him from the sky.

The things that must be hidden among them he cannot fathom. He tries to count how many there are even though he knows it’s an impossible feat. He draws pictures made by their lines and patterns. He imagines seeing the huge balls of gas and fire up close and he imagines which ones are near planets.

In his mind he can see ships of outrageous and grandiose designs drifting through them. Ships that are angular and sharp moving quickly, small and fast like bullets. Huge cruisers with a thousand little windows that move with a purposeful steadiness. Battle-ready ships with huge weapons and dark paint, some huge like looming shadows and some so small you’d never see them. Older ships, washed up transport ships in need of spare parts, running on love and held breath.

In his mind there are races whose skin tones and eye colours are anything in the rainbow and beyond. Some aren’t humanoid, some are just sparkling lights, some walk on two legs, some walk on four. Some have fur and some are bald. His mind begins to race. He pictures himself among them, his boring human colour scheme in a whole universe of variety. He feels an ache in his chest and he grits his teeth, knowing he is allowing himself indulgence that’s dangerous. He’s an explorer at heart and the world is too small for him. He sighs and pushes the heels of his hands against his eyes until little stars appear in his vision.

He can’t escape.

He puts his hands behind his head and leans back, watching with a racing mind. His vision dims for a moment, growing dark and blurry, and then it clears. He must be tired. He presses his eyes shut but he doesn’t want to leave yet.

As a child he used to stay until he could see the sunset on the horizon and then he’d smile giddily and dash home before anyone noticed he was gone. He sits up and stretches his arms. He has no desire to leave yet but there’s a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that says he needs to go back. He has work in the morning,

He wonders if other races have children like humans do. Is there a race where the men carry the children and play the role of mum? He’d prefer that. He could choose then, whether or not he was ready. He clenches his hand into a fist and then unclenches it, fidgeting. Do aliens ever find out they’re about to be a parent and suddenly grow restless in their own skin?

His mother was right beyond her knowledge; except for where she said he’d cope. He sighs heavily and leans back. He’ll stay till the sun rises. It’s the sort of commitment he isn’t scared of, even though the rising of a gigantic ball of fire and gas and light is completely out of his control. It’s meant to happen, it doesn’t take him by surprise.

As he lies in wait he finds himself drifting in and out of sleep. He blinks his eyes open only for them to grow heavy and shut again after a moment or two. At one point he wakes and finds his clothes are a little damp, soft and sticking to his skin a little, dew on the grass around him. The horizon is glowing a soft yellow gold and the stars are fading away. He takes one last look and rubs his damp palms over his face. There is stubble on his cheeks and chin that he needs to shave off or Carol will refuse to kiss him again.

As a teenager he preferred riding around, joyriding in cars, or sometimes taking the first high speed rail he saw to wherever it terminated. As a teenager he liked the thrill of adventure and nothing cleared his mind like it. When he got married he found an adventure in his own life that was unexpected and at points difficult. Rushing not to be late to work, dashing off when anything went wrong with his wife – he was not short of adrenaline rushes. This is the first time he’s gone out because his feet are restless. His mind is less so now but it bubbles beneath the surface and he can tell it won’t be long before he takes the car and drives until it crashes or runs out of biofuel.

He returns home on restless feet and shaves. In the morning Carol smiles at him warmly as if the world is not suddenly off kilter. He smiles back at her but he never finds out if it reaches his eyes. He leans down and kisses her gently, pulling the covers around her shoulders and reminding her she was looking after two now. She laughs and he wonders if she has looked so otherworldly to him.


	2. Glitches

“Sophie if it’s a girl then,” Carol’s pen crafts the name on the PADD smoothly, her writing as delicate as Jim now fears she is, swollen and glowing with pregnancy. They are sat on the sofa in their living room, Carol curled up clumsily with a blanket over her, tucked beneath her elbows and the PADD she’s writing on. Jim is sat beside her, leaning back, a couple of inches between them. He watches with a terrifying finality as she writes the name and swallows hard.  
“I still think David is a good idea.” She taps the side of the device, just missing the screen, and purses her lips. He sighs and slides an arm around her shoulders squeezing her gently.  
“C’mon, we both know David is boring. There’s still almost two months to go, we don’t need names.”  
She sighs, exasperated. “We do though.”  
“I was named after I was born.”  
“Thanks for your input Tiberius.” The glimmer of a youthful smile appears on her face but in the dim light it creates more shadows where there are lines of weariness and impending parenthood forming. Jim’s face is still – thankfully – somewhat smooth, but there are lines under his eyes and shadows there too.

Neither of them sleep much anymore.

Jim can feel her when she’s lying with her eyes open and her back to him, can see the way the silvery moonlight is illuminating her silhouette and playing on the pale skin of her shoulder, can feel her shift and fidget almost constantly. He can see where her nightdress is stretching to accommodate her even though it’s supposedly a maternity item. Even in the moonlight she glows now. He turns over under the covers and feels them scratch at his skin slightly. Normally he sleeps stretched out and comfortable, taking up at least his half of the bed, but now he curls up and pulls his legs and arms closer to himself, wrapping himself tightly – protectively. He watches the clock. Clockwatching is a bad habit he picked up on the lazy and boring workdays when he couldn’t wait to go home. Now he uses it to figure out how much sleep he could get if he fell asleep right now. In the morning he feels the mattress shift as she gets up and he watches her through squinted eyes.

Now he looks at her and smiles a soft smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He leans forward and presses his lips to her forehead. “Fine, David it is.” His fingers play a melody on her shoulder, fidgeting, and she squirms a little where it tickles.  
“Thank you,” She adds it to the PADD and then puts it aside, kissing him on the mouth and grinning wholeheartedly. “Are you off out tonight?”  
“Yeah, I promised Mitchell,” He replies and strokes some hair from her face. She nods and, after a few more of her smiles and kisses, permits him to leave. He pulls on his jacket and closes the front door delicately, slipping into the car and carefully reversing out of the driveway.

 

* * *

 

This part of the town is less built up and if Jim takes just the right turning he can find himself on a long, winding, empty road. He can speed down it without worry or fear of an accident and as soon as he sees it stretch in front of him he presses hard on the accelerator and feels his adrenaline begin to pump. He winds all of the windows down and the air rushes in, battering his face and pushing against him, giving him something to fight against.

 

He goes faster.

 

The engine of the car can take higher speeds than Carol would like to think and he glances at the various displays, nudging the car closer to it’s top speed. He still wishes he could cut the roof off of it for nights like these. It’s normally a noiseless vehicle but Jim pushes it until he hears the growl of the engine and a wave of satisfaction washes over him. He sticks one hand out of the window and feels the air push hard against it. 

As a teen he had a bike instead of a car. The thing was his baby and he used to spend evenings tinkering with it, sometimes after crashing it when Mitchell dared him to do a likely impossible stunt. He loved the rush of air against his face and body and the speeds he could race at. The uncertain way it turned corners and the danger he felt in all his limbs when he wore no more protection than his leather jacket. He had scraped the skin off his shin once and worn the wound like a badge of pride, a stupid grin on his face when he limped home. Carol had loved that side of him until they married. After that it was four wheels and carpet swatches. 

 

Faster.

 

He wants to go faster. He wants to feel the wind push against him. Wants to feel his eyes sting and water as he forces them shut just to blink. When they first married all of this stopped and he thought that was it. But now he misses the air and the freedom he felt beforehand. There is no middle ground for him, nowhere he can settle between the two. 

 

He misses his freedom. 

 

He was temporarily content but the blanket of married life only subdued him while he still felt some freedom. The prospect, the mere thought, of being tied down for life – well and truly tied down – leaves him speeding in the other direction, car hovering precariously close to the ground as it’s power drains. He slows to a stop under the stars and presses his hands over his face. 

 And then he hears his phone.

 

* * *

 

Jim paces up and down restlessly. He can hear noises coming from down the corridor but he doesn’t dare move any closer than this. There is shouting and the sound of someone dropping something and his heart joins it on the floor. He swallows and sits down in a cold metal chair for a moment, his feet aching and sore from all of the walking. He looks at his watch. It has been three hours.

Should it take this long?

His leg jumps up and down as he waits. There is more shouting and then the lights flicker darker for a moment. He glances up at them and frowns, handsome face creasing, tired looking. His hair is sticking up at odd angles from the times he has run his hand through it. The lights buzz softly and constantly and he puts it out of his mind.

 

He sits for another minute and then gets to his feet, pacing again. His footsteps are uncomfortably loud on the hard, cold floor, and he strains to hear sounds of jubilation or… anything. He turns around and his shoes squeak loudly on the floor. He rubs the side of his face, his cheek, and drags his hand over his lips and chin, simply trying to find something to do with all the energy in his limbs that he can’t seem to exert. His heart is pounding loudly in his chest. He reaches to touch it and finds his hand is pressed against flesh, not his shirt, but when he looks down all is as it should be – with him at least.

 

Carol is down the hallway on her own and he knows he should be with her. Having a child isn’t a safe thing until they’ve packed their bags and moved out. Only then can you put your feet up and think of yourself again. And here he is at the start of that journey too terrified to go near the room. Outwardly he blames it on the fact that he finds it unbearable to see her in pain but internally he knows that he simply doesn’t want to see her. 

 

A little under nine months ago she told him she was pregnant and he saw how she flourished as she swelled and grew. He saw how her presence within the house grew until she was in every room and he was in none of them. He realises, stood still at last, that he never told her he didn’t want it; she never asked. 

“Are you happy?” She had asked the first time and he said yes, a reflexive action like when you hit your knee and your leg jerks upwards. They had discussed children but she never asked ‘do you want children’. He presses his lips into a thin line and sinks into a chair, elbows leaning on his knees and his head in his hands. He never asked it either.

 

The corridor is silent now but he doesn’t realise at first. He is breathing deeply, suddenly fighting the urge to turn around and walk away in long, confident strides. No one will question him if he looks like he knows where he’s going. He could walk out of here, take the car and drive off into another city. He could explore the world. Except it has already been explored and he cannot abandon a woman with a child. 

 

He lifts his head and the whiteness of the walls hurts his eyes a little. The hospital seems to have gone silent and he frowns a little, standing up. He is stood in front of a window but the glass has steamed up and blurred, impossible to see through. He hardly notices.

 

There are no sounds of jubilation from the room and despite his misgivings his blood runs cold at the thought. It was a risk, it was always a risk that they would have to face. He lifts his foot but cannot place it back on the floor and when he does so his shoe is gone. He looks down and murmurs a ‘huh’ that sounds something between confused and apathetic. He does not know where his shoe is. He didn’t take it off. He takes another step and he is wearing his shoes again. His eyebrows draw close together as he frowns.

 

The corridor seems emptier than before, although Jim doesn’t know what’s missing from it. The lights flicker again and he sighs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. They are still there. He takes small steps but there is no hurry; there is no sound. If it has gone wrong he does not want to intrude on a scene he will only half feel, a muted sort of sorrow that seems almost fake. If it has gone as badly as he fears he does not want to ever enter the room. But he has to because the silence is killing him, pushing in on his ears and his brain. It feels overwhelming, all around him, constant, unceasing.

 

The door is looming but he can’t see any light from inside. He frowns even more, his legs growing heavier as he gets closer. If anything happened they should have come to get him. He forces his legs to move faster, to take larger and longer strides, and he wonders who he will call if something’s gone wrong. His mother and then… who? 

In the blinding corridor he feels a distinct loneliness wrap itself around him and he pauses, disturbed by it. It isn’t the loneliness itself that disturbs him though. It’s the familiarity of it, as if it’s always been perched on his shoulder like the little devil people always describe when they want to excuse a bad decision. He picks up the pace again and he wonders if he’s just imagining things. It’s most likely that, the stress and pressure of the situation terrifying him into panicking.

 

He is standing in front of the door.

 

The little square window that’s at his eye level is dark but not pitch black. It’s blurred for privacy so he can’t see anything clearly – but the darkness is unusual. Would they turn out the lights if someone died?

 

He sets his hand on the door handle that feels weak and flimsy in his grip but then he stops. There’s movement he can see through the window. A blurred colour, a mustard yellow sort of colour, and it’s moving. He can’t understand it. It’s getting closer to the door when a blue blur joins it and the two stand near, their movements stopping. His grip on the door handle tightens and he looks down to see his knuckles are white.

 

His wife isn’t on the other side of the door. The hospital bed he left her in isn’t on the other side of the door. He’s certain of that. He can’t see any white blurs or any white at all through the little window. The things he knows belong to the hospital are nowhere to be found on the other side. He lets go of the handle and steps back.

 

He was scared when he thought he’d have a baby. He was terrified when he thought his family had died.

But both of these are lost to confusion for the moment. The figures, the unknowns, unnerve him, but they don’t strike him with the same fear he would have expected. They strike in him a fear for Carol but not for his own safety; his safety isn’t relevant. There have been few times in his life Jim has feared for his own safety and many more times when he should have. He steps forward and presses his ear to the door, trying to hear something, to discern some sort of information. Anything. There is the silence that presses in on him and hums softly. He freezes. Silence isn’t a gentle, regular humming. The white noise he mistook for silence fills his mind and his ears. He sees the blurs move out of the corners of his eyes.

 

He moves his hand from the doorknob reflexively and stares. They’re coming closer to the door, the blurs growing larger and merging together yet somehow remaining two distinct figures. 

 

And then the door fizzles out of existence for a moment.

 

He still half expects to see Carol there, lying in a hospital bed, or a doctor, a team of nurses, something real and _logical_. Instead he catches a glimpse of two people, men, and he feels his muscles go taut, responding to a threat he isn’t sure he fears. He reaches out a hand and presses it against the door, feeling its solidarity that seems more than questionable. It was solid moments ago and is solid still. And yet it does not feel like wood or paint or plastic, it isn’t a substance he knows. It’s alive, buzzing, he can feel the energy through the pads of his fingers. He pushes gently, slowly, and it’s as if he can feel its existence weaken and grow faint. He runs his hand down to the doorknob and his fingers close around air. 

 

The doorknob is gone.

 

He pushes his hair back and feels around where it should be. The air is warm, as if energy were travelling through it, but that makes no sense. He rubs his face and his eyes, pressing against them with a roughness born of exasperation. Everything around him is changing and buzzing, alive suddenly, and he knows something is wrong.

He was stressed about fatherhood but to be having nightmares or, worse, hallucinations about the whole thing is beyond what he thought was the problem. If he’d known he’d react this strongly he might have spoken up and risked dimming the glow of motherhood that lit Carol like his own sun. He can feel the lines in his forehead and the tiredness in his limbs. He is the only thing right now that doesn’t feel alive. He needs to escape his own mind and find Carol, the baby, his life. 

 

He lets himself lean forward, his forehead knocking gently against the not-so –solid door and then sinking slightly. He starts to jerk back but momentum carries him and he stumbles forward through where there was once a light grey door and an off white or cream wall, finding nothing but empty space there now. The blood rushes from his face and he feels his chest grow cold with fear. The first thing he does is look behind him where he expects the bright, unfriendly corridor to be, but he’s in a grey room that’s not actually much larger than his bedroom in his and Carol’s house. The ceiling is higher, he realises, lowering his gaze slowly to examine what lies before him.

 

When he glimpsed two men he saw less than half of what lay on the other side of the door. Standing with wide eyes he takes in the sight of five men, dressed in primary coloured shirts and black trousers, spread about the room. The one closest to him is in blue and looks unapproachable in the sort of way where he might just bite your head off for looking at him the wrong way. But he steps forward slowly, warily, and his eyes are bluer than his shirt. Jim doesn’t back off. As he examines him the man seems less threatening, bit by bit, grumpy and displeased but not aggressive. Jim makes eye contact with him and this seems to signify something.

 

“Are you alright?” The man opens his mouth and speaks in a low Southern drawl that Jim has heard on television but never in real life. It’s English too. After a moment or two he nods his head in response, still standing with a couple of feet between them.

 

“My - wife-“ The words stick in Jim’s throat but he pushes them out in the same way he would cough up a burnt roast potato at Christmastime. He doesn’t really know what mentioning Carol will achieve but she should be here and he cannot shake that thought.

The man looks towards another and Jim follows his gaze. Sharp, pointed brows and a greenish complexion make him wonder if they shouldn’t be asking the yellow-clad man if he’s alright. He stands with a back that would make a chiropractor weep with happiness and examines Jim with dark eyes that give away nothing. They make eye contact and his face doesn’t change. The eyes show nothing. There is nothing in them. Jim shivers and maintains it, almost challenging him.

“Your wife?” When he opens his mouth to speak the only tone is the slight lift at the end of the question. His voice is low, somewhat sleek, but his accent sounds like something’s wrong or missing. He has easily disregarded Jim’s outburst as if it never happened and it makes his skin prickle unpleasantly. 

 

“My – yes – my wife?” Jim speaks and the action prompts movement from the Southern man who steps closer to him. He barely spares him a glance though, his presence doesn’t intimidate nor does it worry. He stares at the yellow-green man and sees one of those angular brows raise.

“I’d like to run proper medical examinations.” That Southern drawl comes again and he starts. It isn’t directed at him.

“Exams?” He turns to the more approachable of the two and stares expectantly. When they exchange a glance but don’t reply to him he repeats it.

 

A couple of the other men, background characters in this strange subconscious play created by Jim’s mind, glance at each other and their expressions seem almost uncertain. Jim sympathises. The Southern stranger is holding a device Jim didn’t notice during his momentary squabble. Its making high pitched noises and Jim can see lights on a panel, but it’s nothing like anything he’s seen before. It’s about the size of a PADD but thicker and black with a strap that makes Jim think of handbags and his mother’s black one she only wore to celebrations and gatherings. Her outdoors handbag.

 

The two have been talking but their words don’t mean much to him and he begins to lose concentration. His mind is reeling in an exhausted sort of fashion. If only Carol could see him now – Jim Kirk lost for words is something she had once too often wished for. 

 

Movement out of the corner of his eye makes him glance back to the two from earlier. They’ve turned and he can see too high shoulders in blue and an impossibly straight back that gives nothing away in gold. He sees them then, as his eyes examine more curiously– his ears. Elongated and pointed at the tips. He can scarcely believe he didn’t see them before. The tips are a slightly deeper green, where they should be red he realises. It’s yet more information that slows his groggy and confused brain, his eyebrows furrowing.

 

And yet he doesn’t feel a longing for the hospital corridor to return to his vision.

 

It’s a revelation that sends sparks through him, right to the tips of his fingers, because it means he isn’t scared. The hospital corridor led to the mundane life he had always pushed against. It led to waking up for the school run, parents evenings and dreadfully boring routine dinnertimes at half past seven each evening where he’d ask how school was. But it also led to Carol. And soon he will wake or be woken. The corridor will terrify him again when he opens his eyes from his sleep or when they find him wandering down it blearily and unconsciously. This is but a dream and it will, soon, end. 

 

There is an energy in him. It isn’t proper energy, rather adrenaline, but it functions in the same way; it fuels him. Such a vivid dream, such reality that is unreality – his mind reels in a different way. Don’t think of it like your reality, he realises, and it can be anything you want. 

 

“I demand to know what’s going on and who you are – where we are.” He speaks up loudly and clearly, attracting the attention of those in the room. They are his thoughts, imaginations, and he’s slightly disappointed it’s not more extravagant. “And what you are.” He looks at the one with the ears with hard eyes and gets a similar look in response. Jim steps closer and squares his shoulders aggressively. 

A silence settles over everyone around him and the hum seems to be dying down. He waits for one of them to say something but silence stretches out and he can see them waiting for the authoritative figure, unreadable still, to make the first move. When he doesn’t the man in blue seems tempted to say something. His shoulders rise as he draws in breath but Jim interrupts him, impatient, and he throws his hands up.

 

“Am I being abducted by aliens?”


End file.
